


Speed Demon

by Gizzwhizz



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Friends to something else, Friendship, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Pining, hand holding, not quite lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 16:08:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19154437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gizzwhizz/pseuds/Gizzwhizz
Summary: “You go too fast for me, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured before turning to step out of the car. Crowley only watched him make his way down the street and around the corner, shocked more by the words than the thermos of holy water now sitting between his knees. Try as he might to convince himself otherwise, there was no mistaking it: the angel hadn’t only been talking about his driving.





	Speed Demon

**Author's Note:**

> So I've watched Good Omens twice in the last week and I could not get this out of my head. I know I'm treading ground that's been gone over a hundred times already, but I just couldn't help myself. I did read the book a few months back when I first heard they were making the show, but this definitely follows the show canon more, especially the end. All dialogue is taken from the show, not out of laziness but simply because these lines are so good and I NEEDED to play with them. I hope you enjoy it!

Six thousand years was an awful long time to know somebody, even for them. Especially someone from the opposite Side. It had never been intentional, per say. They simply kept running into each other. Pure coincidence. Or maybe it was part of the whole ineffable plan nonsense, who could say? Certainly not Crowley, nor did he care to dwell on the idea too much. In the end it hardly mattered, after all. 

He refused to acknowledge, even to himself, that seeing Aziraphale always lifted his spirits until the 1600’s, sometime around when they’d met at the Globe Theater and he’d found himself offering to help tempt interest in Shakespeare’s _Hamlet_ at a mere hopeful glance from the angel. Even then, he didn’t explore the feeling all that much. All he knew was that seeing that cherubic smile blossom on Aziraphale’s face did Things to him. Warm Things. Things that no self-respecting demon would ever admit to. 

He refused to act on the impulse—not completely—until the London Blitz some 300 years later. They hadn’t talked in nearly a century, not since their spat over the holy water (“fraternizing” indeed!), and then a bit of knowledge filtered through Crowley’s sphere of influence. The angel had gotten himself into a spot of trouble, in a church of all places, and was about to get his fool self discorporated. 

They were immortal beings, but that didn’t mean that being discorporated didn’t _hurt_. And what would happen then? What if Heaven decided to keep the angel on desk duty for a while? Or what if they did issue him a new body but it was…different? He’d only ever known Aziraphale in one form since the very Beginning. Crowley was a selfish creature by nature and while he changed with the times much more readily than most of the rest of Hell, he liked certain things just so. 

No, no, adjusting to a new appearance would never do. He knew all of Aziraphale’s little ticks and quirks in _this_ body. The way he fiddled with his watch chain when he was nervous or uncomfortable, the way he folded his hands over his stomach when he was content, the precise creases of his scowl when Crowley mentioned something he didn’t like or the nearly ethereal glow that seemed to grace his cheeks when Crowley made him smile. 

And so he did the unthinkable, without question: he entered a church of his own volition. The consecrated ground burned right through his shoes, scorching his very soul, but he hopped about and breathlessly announced his “plan” to divert a bomb onto their very heads. It was the best he could come up with on such short notice and he had to put his trust in Aziraphale that the angel would be able to keep them both intact afterwards. Worst case scenario, at least they would be discorporated together. 

After it was done, Crowley dusted himself off and sighed as he could finally place both feet on the ground. The destruction seemed to have cancelled out the consecration at least. He shot Aziraphale a triumphant grin, but did he even get a proper “thanks” for saving both of their hides (not that he wanted one, of course)? No. Instead, all the angel could think about was his precious books. Crowley watched him grip his tight curls and almost double over in pain, fretting terribly. The demon only shook his head as he stepped past Aziraphale and reached down to take the unharmed bag from the dead Nazi’s arm. 

“Little demonic miracle of my own,” he announced, handing the bag over. “Lift home?” he added, picking his way out of the rubble and not bothering to look back to see if the angel was following. Sometimes he rather wondered why he bothered. 

Time ticked on and in the ‘60s he decided it was time to take matters into his own hands on the whole holy water business. He needed that insurance. Hell would not be kind to him if they ever discovered how much time he was spending with the angel these days. Ever since that night in the church their meetings had shrunk from every century to every decade and then constricted even more until they were regularly bumping into one another at least once a month. It wasn’t all that surprising, considering they’d both taken up residence in Soho—completely independently of one another, of course—but even so, it could raise uncomfortable questions. 

It took a great deal of self-control not to jump when he climbed into his Bentley and suddenly found the angel sitting in the passenger seat. Popping up unexpected was _his_ trick. He wasn’t used to other people pulling it on him. Aziraphale looked distinctly uncomfortable and while Crowley turned his whole body in his seat to face him, the angel kept his eyes on the windshield, only glancing at his demon counterpart now and then as he spoke haltingly. It sounded like he might have rehearsed this speech quite a few times. Maybe that was why Crowley’s famous temper didn’t immediately rear its head, why he didn’t simply kick the angel out of his car and instead let him keep talking. 

Then Aziraphale gave him a final shy glance, licked his lips, and produced a thermos which he handed over quite carefully. “Don’t go unscrewing the cap,” he warned quietly. 

Crowley took the offering and stared at it, listening to the holy water slosh around inside. It was the most dangerous weapon he had ever touched, worse than a nuclear bomb to a demon. And the angel had given it to him freely, even if it had taken him over a hundred years to come around to the idea. Suddenly Crowley was almost desperate to repay the favor, somehow. A lift in his car was a drop in the bucket of what he owed Aziraphale for such a gift, but they were already sitting in the Bentley and it was the only thing that jumped to mind. 

Aziraphale rebuffed the idea almost instantly, and refused to be budged when Crowley pressed. But surely he had to do _something_ , didn’t he? Then Aziraphale turned to face him properly, meeting Crowley’s gaze through the dark sunglasses he wore to hide his serpentine eyes (really, now, he knew he was a snake but Hell could have done something to help him blend in a bit more, couldn’t they?). The angel was wearing an expression that Crowley had only seen a few times over the years, and never directed at him. He looked sad. 

“You go too fast for me, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured before turning to step out of the car. Crowley only watched him make his way down the street and around the corner, shocked more by the words than the thermos of holy water now sitting between his knees. Try as he might to convince himself otherwise, there was no mistaking it: the angel hadn’t only been talking about his driving.

 

* * *

 

One might think that after six thousand years of existence, Crowley might have learned that very rarely does one recognize the hardest part of a task until it’s over. More often than not, the hardest parts only seem hard when thinking about them in the hypothetical. Actually performing said tasks is never quite as harrowing as one’s imagination might make them out to be, and Crowley _was_ a demon cursed with an imagination. 

No, usually it’s the bits that sound easy that prove the most challenging. Rearing the antichrist? A piece of cake. Tracking down Adam Young when they’d discovered their eleven-year-long mistake? Water off a duck’s back, in hindsight. Their struggle to get to him first and put it all right? Well, it had all turned out all right in the end. 

(Crowley wasn’t ready yet to think about the spats they had had in the process or the whole business with the burning bookshop. If he was being honest with himself, and he rarely was, the hours he had spent thinking Aziraphale was gone were some of the worst hours of his long, long life. At one point he’d even been ridiculously angry at himself that he’d already used up the holy water, though he chalked that insane thought up to the incredible amount of booze he’d imbibed by then.) 

No, the hardest part came after the whole Armageddon debacle had been taken care of. With Agnes Nutter’s final prophecy. They’d done well to take heed of it and swap bodies. He couldn’t say whose idea it was exactly and for once didn’t feel the need to take credit enough to care, truthfully. All he really knew was that there had been a lot of exhaustion and anxiety and wine involved, which was never a good combination. 

Even so, the idea proved life-saving, for both of them. And yet, afterwards, when he was sitting half sprawled on a park bench beside his angel once more, he found he still hadn’t quite got the knack for breathing correctly back just yet. 

“I asked for a rubber duck,” Aziraphale confided with a little grin. “I made the archangel Michael miracle me a towel!” His angel was nearly giddy with the experience and so Crowley laughed, because he was supposed to laugh, even if he didn’t feel much like laughing. 

He didn’t offer any details of his own side of things in return. In truth it had been damned hard to hold onto his role and not break character. He couldn’t let them catch on, after all. He had to be the prim and proper angel, quiet and obedient and polite to a fault. Even while Gabriel snarled at him and rounded on him like an angry dog. Even as Uriel and Sandalphon looked on with sadistic grins while he—Aziraphale—was ordered to step into the tornado of hellfire. This was the kind of treatment he’d expected from his lot, but not from Heaven. He knew Aziraphale always seemed a bit nervous and out of sorts when he had to report to the Head Office, but he’d never suspected this level of, well, _bullying._ Not from other angels. It had taken everything he had to remain placid and contrite. His only slip had been at the very end, when he had been standing untouched in the fire while Gabriel and the others looked on in horror. Only then had he let a bit of his ire slip free to spit a gout of flames at them that made them all jump. 

It wasn’t as good as tearing them limb from limb. It wasn’t what they deserved. But it would have to do. 

Now, sitting on a bench in the middle of St. James’ Park, Crowley let his false laughter subside and finally voiced his more sobering thoughts on the fact that this wasn’t over. That Heaven and Hell still wanted their war, and if they couldn’t have it against each other, then they’d pick the only other target available: humanity. Or, rather, all those who dwelled on earth. Including them. What he didn’t say, of course, was the true cause of his worry. The humans were of very little consequence, obviously, but, oddly enough, neither was his own life, either. Instead, he thought of being surrounded by burning books, of Gabriel’s twisted smile, of being alone. 

They were on their own side, now, really and truly. 

Aziraphale didn’t seem to sense the storm raging inside of him. His sunglasses made him slightly harder to read than the angel himself. Then again, maybe Aziraphale _did_ sense it, because when Crowley lazily suggested lunch, knowing that he’d be turned down, his angel accepted. Not only did he accept, he suggested the Ritz of all places, a half-hearted offer he’d made all those years ago during the holy water incident in the Bentley even though both of them knew he’d never follow through on it. And yet there he was, saying a table had just miraculously opened up while he stood and smoothed down his vest before gracing Crowley with a smile that was warm and inviting. The kind of smile that almost made his angelic cheeks glow. 

Crowley’s long limbs pushed him off of his slouch on the bench and he followed after his angel like a dog on a leash. For the first time in a very long time he felt…peaceful. They walked, rather than retrieve the Bentley. He’d never been much for walking, not since the invention of cars anyway, but moving in step with his angel with his hands in his pockets and his head bent slightly to better hear his companion was enjoyable in a way he couldn’t quite place. Demons weren’t built for happiness, at least not happiness like this, and he wasn’t at all sure what to do with the sudden bust of emotion. So, he didn’t do anything except walk and nod his head now and again. 

All too soon they were seated at a table. Crowley took the liberty of ordering their cheapest Champaign and then miracling it into a brand and vintage of much higher quality as soon as their glasses were full. For a moment all he could do was hold the glass up and watch the bubbles rise, for once lost for words. He hadn’t said much at all since they’d left the park, in fact, other than the occasional hum to let Aziraphale know he was listening. No matter how he tried, his mind kept drifting back to the war he knew was coming and the simple fact that neither of them were safe. And by Go—Sat— _Somebody,_ how he wanted his angel to be safe. 

Said Angel broke into his thoughts, his own glass raised in his hand as he eyed Crowley to say, “I like to think none of this would have worked out…if you weren’t, at heart, just a little bit, a Good person.” The “g” was definitely capitalized. For the first time that day a genuine smile spread across Crowley’s face. 

“And if you weren’t…deep down, just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing,” he volleyed back. Rather than look affronted or try to deny the words, however, Aziraphale actually blushed, just a little, and ducked his head as though he’d been paid the highest compliment. Bolstered by the reaction, Crowley raised his glass. 

“Cheers,” he said simply. “To the world.” 

“To the world,” Aziraphale agreed, clinking their glasses together. They both took a swig and then Aziraphale launched into talking again, mostly about how he’d need to re-inventory his shop thanks to the new books Adam had added to his collection, or about a few rare volumes of something or other that he’d been putting off tracking down for ages thanks to over a decade lost to all this antichrist business. Crowley listened and sipped his Champaign while Aziraphale nearly rocked in his chair enthusiastically, leaning close and then back again only to repeat the motion every time he hit upon another exciting idea. And if a few times his hand brushed the one Crowley had left idly on the table, the demon didn’t say anything about it and his angel did nothing to stop the occasional little touches. In fact, if anything, he grew more bold and finally laid his hand over Crowley’s completely and even gave it a bit of a squeeze as he babbled something about a rare first edition of something that Crowley had admittedly not been paying any attention to. 

He didn’t remove his hand when their food came, either, and Crowley did nothing but simply picked his fork up with his left to eat. 

It seemed that his angel had caught up to him, after all, and all it had taken was for them to narrowly avoid the end of the world.


End file.
